Chapter Text
‘What’s Mr Whippy having today, then?’
Bee’s voice was flat, but Crowley wasn’t fooled. They wanted to know as badly as he did. He leaned out of the window just a fraction further and squinted against the sunlight burning down on Tadfield on this particular summer afternoon.
His second-floor office had an excellent view of the university gardens. There was an ancient stone fountain surrounded by rose bushes, and right in front of it stood the bench that had occupied Crowley’s attentions every afternoon for the past three weeks.
More precisely, it was the man currently sat on said bench eating ice cream. The man who, as Bee had pointed out somewhat cruelly, though not entirely inaccurately, looked like a cone of vanilla soft serve himself. Today, he was dressed in a cream cotton shirt, long-sleeved, despite the weather, underneath a velveteen waistcoat that had to be uncomfortably hot. In his right hand, he was holding…
‘Looks like—’ Crowley craned his neck so far, the bones in his spine cracked. ‘Ninety-nine with a flake, no sprinkles.’
‘Classic.’
‘He’s a classic kind of bloke.’
‘Yeah, but wasn’t he eating something proper weird yesterday?’
‘I didn’t say it was weird, just green. Apple sorbet or something. Perfectly respectable choice. And the day before that he had a Calippo, can’t get more classic than that.’
He turned back to the desk, where Bee sat in his chair, feet up, ruining the latest print edition of The Astronomical Journal with their dirty boots.
‘Mate, you’re obsessed. It’s actually tragic.’
Crowley waved a dismissive hand in their direction.
‘If I’m obsessed, then you sure as hell are, too. Like you haven’t shown up here every day at two just to see what he’s eating.’
Bee shrugged and said nothing, presumably because they knew they weren’t going to win this argument. Crowley stared out of the window again. The man — and he refused to call him Mr Whippy even in his head, despite Bee’s best efforts — was already halfway through his cone. Probably for the best. It was a hot day. He wouldn’t want melty vanilla dripping all over his beautiful hands.
‘When are you gonna go out there and talk to him?’
Crowley scoffed.
‘Are you mad? What would I even say to him?’
‘Hiya, mate, I see you like ice cream, do you want to lick my Magnum?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Do you have to drag everything into the gutter?’
‘Into the— what the hell’s happened to you, Crowley? You’re the king of the gutter. You’re the one pulling everyone else down like a… filthy sewer goblin.’
‘Yes, well, he deserves better than that.’ He watched the man’s pale curls ripple in the summer breeze. ‘He’s an angel.’
‘You’re disgusting. Just go out there and talk to him. Spare me the heart eyes.’
‘No one’s forcing the heart eyes on you. You don’t have to be here, you know. I believe you have an office of your own? Somewhere up there?’
He pointed a finger at the ceiling. Bee’s office was directly above his. They shrugged.
‘S’fun seeing you like this, all—’ they waved their arms about. ‘—cute.’
‘Get out.’
Bee left in a flash of laughter that echoed through the hallway until they’d disappeared up the stairs. He slammed the door and turned back to the window. The angel had gone. But he would be there again tomorrow at 2:05 pm precisely, ice cream in hand. Crowley couldn’t wait.
‘What’s your favourite ice cream?’ he asked Bee the next day, when they appeared outside his office at two, casual as anything.
He’d just made his way back from his seminar. What a waste of everyone’s time in this heat. Neither he nor the second-years had any inclination to focus on celestial bodies when the one at the centre of their solar system was so keen on cooking them alive.
He opened the door to his office and shoved Bee inside, eager to get to the window.
‘I quite like a Viennetta,’ they said as they settled in his office chair.
Crowley let out a single cackle.
‘What are you, seventy-four?’
‘Hey, it’s a classic for a reason. What about you?’
He looked out of the window, where the man had just sat down on the bench, holding what appeared to be an ice cream sandwich.
‘Whatever he’s having,’ he sighed. ‘Neapolitan, I think? Or one of those Oreo ones.’
He could practically hear Bee’s eyeroll.
‘Tomorrow, you’re going to go out there, get yourself an ice cream, and sit down on the bench next to him.’
‘Where does he even get ice cream ‘round here? The café doesn’t sell them. He’s hardly brought it from home just for his lunch break.’
‘There you go, that’s something you can ask him about. “Good afternoon, kind sir, would care to point me towards the nearest ice cream establishment?” Ready-made conversation starter.’
‘Because you of all people would know how to hold a conversation.’
‘I talk to my flies all the time. They love it.’
‘I bet they do.’
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. In June. Just a week and a half before the end of the semester. Crowley didn’t think there was anyone left in this building actually doing any work. He certainly wasn’t. He turned to Bee, panicked.
‘What do I do?’ he mouthed.
‘Come in,’ they shouted in the direction of the door.
It opened, emitting a young man glancing furtively between them. Crowley looked him up and down. Definitely a student, and too well-dressed to be one of his.
‘I think you might have gotten the wrong office.’
The boy stepped in and closed the door behind him. With three people inside, the room was crowded.
‘Doctor Crowley, right? Isn’t it your office hours? Two to half past three?’
‘So it is. Er… take a seat.’
He hurried to clear the chair opposite his desk of the three houseplants and the half-eaten sandwich that were sharing it. Bee stood up from the desk chair and skulked away towards the door.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. Got some flies in the lab in desperate need of conversation.’
The student looked at them with a frown, but was clearly too intimidated to say anything. Wise choice.
‘By the way, young man,’ Bee said with one hand on the door handle, ‘where would you get an ice cream around here?’
He shrank back a little.
‘There’s an ice cream van just out the front, by the main entrance. Every day around lunchtime. Got to get there early though, there’s always a queue.’
Bee gave Crowley a Very Significant Nod and then disappeared into the corridor. He sank into his desk chair and looked at the boy sitting stiffly opposite him.
‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to switch to astronomy after the summer. My tutor told me to talk to you.’
‘Right.’ Crowley opened a drawer, which was overflowing with god knew what paperwork. There was a form for this somewhere. ‘What do you study now?’
‘Business. Just finishing first year.’
That explained the tailored clothes.
‘Quite a change. If you switch, you’ll likely have to start first year all over again. Sure you want to do that, er—?’
‘Eric. Yeah, that’s fine.’
‘Do you have an interest in astronomy?’
‘Obviously. I went for business because… to be honest, because I thought I was too stupid to do anything more science-y. I’ve got two brothers, see. One of them did business and he said it’s easy. Plus he’s raking in the money now. But it’s really not for me, and so I thought, why not do something I’m actually interested in, even if it is hard?’
Crowley nodded. Motivation was half the ticket. If Eric kept that going, he wouldn’t have any issues making it through all three years. Hell, if he managed to get to the lectures on time, he’d be most of the way there. And the boy looked more invested than the majority of of the current bunch of first-years he was teaching. After a bit of digging, Crowley finally found the relevant form and sent Eric on his way with a promise to keep in touch.
As soon as he was out of the door, Crowley rushed back to the window. The man was still on the bench, though he appeared to have finished his ice cream sandwich. There was something undeniably attractive about him, beyond the cloud-light hair and the way his shoulders filled the pale cotton of his shirt.
It was in the way he sat there, serene and content amidst the pink and yellow of the roses that were in full bloom around him. An aura of peacefulness that Crowley craved, that he wanted to bask in. And though he’d never admit to taking life advice from a nineteen-year old in a snazzy suit, Crowley decided then and there that he, too, would go for it. Even if it was hard.
On Monday, he arrived on campus armed with three pounds seventy in change and the two lactase capsules he’d have to swallow if he actually managed to get hold of an ice cream. After his seminar, he bolted up the stairs to his office, waiting for Bee. The angel had not yet arrived at his bench.
When Crowley heard the telltale thudding of heavy boots on the stairs outside, he ripped open the door. Bee looked up at him with a startled sort of expression.
‘I’m off to get myself a treat,’ he said, tapping the pocket of his trousers in which three pounds seventy were merrily clinking away, waiting to be spent.
Bee snorted.
‘Bring me one, too.’
‘No way, find your own mystery man.’
‘Piss off, then. I’ll be watching you.’
They strode into the office and dragged the newly empty chair over to the windowsill.
‘Hurry up, he’s just sat down.’
Crowley took the stairs two steps at a time, rushing past the slow-moving throng of students. The thick stone walls of the ancient building kept the inside temperature bearable, but as soon as Crowley exited through the main entrance’s double doors, he was hit with the full heat of the thick summer air.
Students were milling around on the green, sitting cross-legged on the grass or on the benches dotted about in the shade of the building. Around half of them were holding ice cream cones. That was promising. Crowley listened out for the giveaway chimes of an ice cream van jingle, but all he could hear was the chatter of students and the traffic noise from the faraway A-road. He walked up to a group of girls sharing one of the benches.
‘Excuse me, where did you get your ice cream?’
They looked at him warily.
‘Ice cream van. Why? It’s allowed here, right?’
Crowley didn’t actually know.
‘Of course. Er, where is the van?’
All four of them shrugged.
‘It was right here, but then it drove off.’
Crowley stalked off in the direction of the car park. It was nominally for university staff only, but the barrier was so easy to cheat, it was a miracle he ever found a spot there at all. The van wasn’t there. He wandered up the road that led to some of the newer faculty buildings. It wasn’t outside Arts & Music, or Environmental Sciences, or the Chemistry labs.
But just when he’d decided to give up and walk back to the shade and cool of his office, he spotted it, by the side of the road, half-hidden by a chestnut tree. An old-fashioned ice cream van with a vaguely sinister and almost certainly unlicensed depiction of Scrooge McDuck painted on the side. Crowley’s stride lengthened. He looked around and, finding the street empty, began to jog towards it.
The van was empty, the motor off. Crowley walked two whole circles around it and, after taking two deep breaths, even knocked on the door. It was deserted. He wondered how the ice cream on the inside stayed cold like that. Did the battery keep the freezer running? But even with his face pressed against the window, he couldn’t see much inside. Bugger. He’d have to try again tomorrow.
The next day, he was just as unlucky. He found the van parked on a different road this time, down by the Modern Languages building. As soon as he saw it, he ran towards it. But the window was shuttered, the vehicle silent, unattended.
‘I don’t even like ice cream,’ he vented at Bee when he returned to his office with his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. ‘Too sweet. And gives me cramps.’
‘Yeah, shame you couldn’t have fallen for a guy sitting on the bench with, I dunno, a houseplant on his lap or something.’
‘I haven’t fallen for him, you prat, I just think he’s the most beautiful creature in the observable universe. A perfectly objective statement of fact.’
They raised their eyebrows so high, they disappeared underneath their matted black fringe.
‘You could always just go out there and talk to him. Without ice cream. You do know you’re making this unnecessarily complicated.’
Crowley knew. He always made things unnecessarily complicated. Which was why he was still single and fantasising about a man he knew nothing about, except for his love of ice cream and vintage fashion.
‘What if we have nothing in common?’ he said, hating how small his voice sounded.
‘What if you only have ice cream in common?’ Bee retorted. ‘Christ, you’re pathetic.’
‘Then at least I can stab myself with the cone.’
‘Listen. I’ve known you for long enough now. I know what this is about.’
‘Yeah?’
He crossed his arms, but avoided their gaze, in the full knowledge he was about to be hit with an uncomfortable truth.
‘Yeah. You’re creating the most convoluted, ridiculous plan to avoid doing the obvious thing you’re scared of. You’ll go on a wild goose chase for this ice cream van and when you finally find it, you’ll find some other excuse not to actually talk to the man. And then the summer break comes ‘round and you’ll be all “ah well, sucks,” and sulk for the rest of the year.’
‘I do not sulk.’
They didn’t bother with a response to that. He looked out of the window again. The man had finished his Solero and was now delicately wiping his hands on what appeared to be an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief.
‘I don’t even know if he’s into men.’
Bee snorted.
‘I’m sorry, have you actually seen him? Exhibit a: the bow tie.’
‘Come on, Bee, that’s so—’
‘Exhibit b: the way he’s wiping his mouth with a tartan handkerchief.’
‘It’s 2022, for heaven’s sake. Straight men—’
‘Crowley. This man is pinging every gaydar in Oxfordshire right now.’
‘How do I know he’s into me, then?’
‘You’ll never find out if you don’t talk to him. So. Tomorrow you go out there, with or without ice cream, and you bloody well talk to him, alright? And if you don’t, I’ll put fly eggs in your desk drawer.’
Crowley knew they would as well.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll talk to him. With or without ice cream.’
‘It’s that or fly eggs. And let me tell you, they hatch fast in this heat. Your office will be swarming before you know it.’
Crowley shuddered, wondering, not for the first time, how and why they had become friends.
He was fiddling with the buttons on his nicest shirt on Wednesday, waiting for the man to appear on the bench, when Bee burst into his office with a wild look on their face.
‘Got… you… this,’ they wheezed and held out a single wrapped raspberry-flavoured Cornetto.
‘What’s this?’
‘Ice cream, you dolt. Take it before it melts.’
‘But where did you—’
‘Walked to bloody ASDA and back, didn’t I?’
‘But that’s all the way down in—’
‘I know, so take it and make your move, for fuck’s sake.’
He took the Cornetto gingerly between his thumb and finger. The wrapper was wet with condensation. The last thing he saw before he stormed out of his office was Bee dropping heavily into the chair by the window.
‘A thank you would be nice!’ they called after him, but he was already halfway down the stairs.
The time on his phone read 2:08pm when he approached the gate to the university gardens, and there he was, sitting on the bench by the fountain, holding a Ninety-Nine. Flake and hundreds and thousands this time. How decadent.
Crowley stood still for a moment, sucking in the muggy air, before he ripped open the paper wrapper and bit into the ice cream. It hurt his teeth. And he didn’t even like raspberries.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked the man in what he thought was an appropriately casual tone of voice, once he’d sauntered over.
‘Be my guest.’
His voice was smooth, silky, and infinitely gentle. Crowley sat down on shaking legs and took another bite of his raspberry ice cream, awkwardly chewing it while his molars were screaming with pain.
He pulled a face and turned to look at the man. Christ, he was even prettier close-up. His eyes were the colour of the cloudless sky above them and his hair looked as soft as the ninety-nine in his hand.
Crowley’s pulse accelerated, nerves clamping down on his heart and his lungs. Bollocks. He’d made it this far, but hadn’t planned beyond this point. What was he supposed to talk about? The man looked at him with a quizzical expression. Crowley raised his ice cream as if it was a drink.
‘Raspberry Cornetto,’ he said, unnecessarily. ‘Got it from the ice cream van.’
The man smiled. There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he mirrored Crowley’s absurd toast with the cone in his hand.
‘As did I. Perfect weather for it, isn’t it?’
‘Tadfield likes to show off in the summer. You new here?’
‘Oh no. I’ve lived here for the best part of a decade. I’m new to the university, though.’
‘What do you teach?’
The man laughed and the lines on his face deepened. Crowley wanted to trace them with his finger.
‘Nothing. I’m a student. A mature one, I’ll grant you. But I just started this year. English Literature, part-time. I take it then that you’re a lecturer?’
‘Astronomy. Sorry for assuming. It’s just—’
He made a circular motion with his hand, indicating the man’s long-sleeved shirt and bow tie. He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat today.
‘The clothes, I know. And I suppose the crow’s feet don’t help. I’ve been asked for an extension twice today already.’
He grinned and licked his cone. Crowley tried very hard not to stare at his mouth. But he still noticed when a drop of ice cream escaped and nearly dripped down his chin, before he caught it with his tongue.
Crowley coughed. His own pink-streaked ice cream was starting to droop a little. He held it away from himself before it had the chance to mess up his black jeans.
‘Enjoying your, er, studies then?’
‘Very much so. I love it. Being here in this place of learning, surrounded by all these young, inquisitive minds. It’s a new beginning for me, and one I’m enjoying immensely.’
Crowley chuckled, and the nerves melted off him like… well, like the raspberry Cornetto in his hand. It was easier than he’d thought. Sitting here, talking to the man. Feeling that gentle gaze, that warm smile on him. He took another bite of ice cream and regretted it.
‘Bet your lecturers adore you, the way you talk about uni,’ he said, battling the brain freeze. ‘Though I’ve always found that part-time students are the easiest to teach. They sacrifice their time to be here, you know, unlike all these kids fresh out of school. So what do you do the other half of the time? When you’re not studying English Literature?’
The man broke into a wide grin, and laughter sparkled in his eyes like starlight.
‘I’m an ice-cream man. And I most certainly did not sell you that Cornetto.’